


Piece By Piece

by ice_hot_13



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/pseuds/ice_hot_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SEQUEL to These Ending Days. Their days on Earth have ended, and while leaving their new home is difficult for some, other bots face possibilities far more painful, waiting for them among the stars or, worse, nowhere at all. <br/>(written ages ago, posted for archiving purposes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is something utterly terrifying about being smaller than the twins as a bot. Ratchet finished the last and most monumental of the procedures needed to turn Sam into a fully functioning Autobot; the process had been similar to that of affixing a sparkling's spark to a metal body. Autobots were extremely mechanical in all processes, and the introduction of a spark to appropriate metal generated a bot. Sam had certainly been babied enough by Bee to feel like a sparkling, in any case.

He's ended up similar to Bee in size, which is to say he's smaller than Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, while still being big enough to toss around. It's terrifying.

 _"Sam!"_ The shout makes Sam scramble around the hanger, in a flail of metal limbs and haste. It's too late – not a moment later, he's tackled to the ground. Sideswipe pins him down easily, grinning down at him. "You're The," he informs Sam cheerfully.

"The?" Sam repeats.

"The. We're playing The." Sideswipe pauses. "Or is it And? No… we're playing In!... Right?"

"No," Sam fights the laughter he knows would get him nothing but another full-body tackle, "It. You're playing tag, and whoever you tag is  _It._ Not, uh, The."

"Oh." Sideswipe looks momentarily confused. "That's stupid."

"No worse than The or And."

"How would you know? Those are awesome games, you're just not allowed to play because you're not good enough." He looks back at the sound of somebot screaming his name. "I should probably go." He's up and running just as Ironhide rounds the corner.

"You!" He bellows. There's a telltale streak of yellow paint across his chassis. "Get back here!" Bee lopes around the corner as Ironhide runs after Sideswipe, coming to offer Sam a hand up.

"How much longer?" Sam asks, and Bee shrugs.

"Soon as it's dark enough," he says, "the cloaking's good, but just in case. Don't want any unsuspecting humans to see a spaceship." He pauses, looks at Sam, "okay, what?"

"What what?"

"That look." Bee crosses his arms over his chest, and Sam grins.

"Fine, fine. I was just wondering… does the Ark look like a starship?" he asks eagerly, and Bee groans.

"Kind of. But if you call Ratchet Bones again-"

"I  _know,_ he'll flip out and say he's not 'some atrocious-bedside-mannered, hypo-happy, bad-tempered, whiskey-swilling Georgian hick'." Sam's imitation makes Bee burst out laughing.

"Three out of four isn't bad, though," Bee manages to say, snickering.

"Hey!" Ratchet's voice makes the two of them whip around, tensed with terror. He's too far away to have heard them, though, and is merely beckoning them over around the hanger. "Shuttle is here." The gravity of his words is silencing, was sobering. The waiting shuttle will take them to the Ark II, suspended high in space. For Ratchet, it's being brought to his fate, brought to the rest of his life. Communications have been strictly coordinates so far; there has been no way to ask who is on the Ark II, who isn't. In a matter of hours, Ratchet will know how he's going to spend the rest of his life.

It's clear from the weight of his tone that he isn't ready to find out.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Some part of Prowl is thankful that it took nearly a century for them to contact the Ark II. Leaving Earth is difficult, but leaving the planet that became their home, the state of the planet that only existed for a few decades a century ago, would have been much more painful. Watching Ironhide say goodbye to Jacob Lennox was sparkbreaking; there's no doubt in Prowl's mind that having to leave Will would have been even harder. The bots all had a particular attachment to their original human friends, and while they've all grown close to the humans they know now, it's not the same. There is and never will be anything quite like watching Annabel run to meet Will in their front yard, hearing the bursting excitement in Will's voice when he told them Sarah was expecting a boy, the pride Will had for his team. In a way, it's the same with Sam, the way he was as a human. Prowl knows Bee still looks at Sam sometimes and sees Sam the way he used to be.

Leaving is difficult, painful, but, looking around the shuttle, Prowl decides that it's easier than the alternatives. Ratchet hasn't spoken since they left Earth an hour ago; Prowl curls in closer against Ironhide's side, trying to keep from imagining what it would be like, to just  _not know._ There couldn't be anything worse than that, waiting to find out something so world-changing all at once.

There is, though. Prowl's gaze moves towards the back of the shuttle, where Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are huddled together in absolute silence. That, Prowl can't imagine. Sunstreaker stares out the window at the black space around them, and that must be worse. Not knowing  _anything,_ not knowing where to find answers, where to start looking, whether to look at all.

Prowl once thought that this is why no one can choose what will happen; these things have to happen to someone, and no one would choose this for themselves, for anyone. He can't think that anymore, though, because it's not true. No one  _should_ want to, but, ultimately, this is what is ruining Sunstreaker.

He  _did_ choose this path, for himself, for Sideswipe, and for the two sparklings, lost to them somewhere in the universe.

When they finally arrive at the Ark II, Prowl disappears to his quarters with Ironhide. No words are exchanged, but they both understand that there are some possibilities they don't want to witness.


	2. Chapter 2

Ratchet can't think straight. Can't think  _anything_ , beyond the single-minded need to find out, find  _him._ He barely registers the fact that the Ark II is a carbon copy of the original Ark, because it doesn't feel like home. Not yet.

"You," he barks at the first bot he sees, a little winged thing that jumps at his shout. "Where's-" he almost chokes on his name, dormant for so long, "where's Wheeljack?"

"I- I-" the bot quavers under his gaze, "I'm new, I don't know everyone's names," he all-but wails. "I'm sorry!"

"I don't want to hear about your miserable inadequacies," Ratchet glares, nearly making the bot burst into hysterics. "I need to find the chief engineer.  _Where is he?_ "

"Um. Um. The medbay, I think. He does medic-y things, until the medic gets here–"

"Stop rambling. Thank you," Ratchet says curtly, and the bot practically faints. As it is, he disappears so quickly Ratchet isn't sure he ever saw the bot move. He ignores this, finds his way to the medbay, a path that feels as familiar as his own sparkbeat. He hesitates before the door, but there's no conceivable way to prepare himself for what might – or might not – be on the other side. He opens the door.

There's only one bot in the medbay. Ratchet forces his intakes to stabilize, something in him reeling. He pauses. Breathes.

"Where's Wheeljack?" he asks shakily. The bot looks up, cool blue paint where there should have been silver, lithe where there should have been broadness, not the right bot at all. It's all wrong, everything. Him, the medbay, and – there's sympathy on his face, and  _no,_ it's  _all wrong –_

"He-" the bot's tone is too gentle, too hesitant, "he was killed in battle."

"He's –" everything stops, slams to a halt and just stops, the universe freezing in a moment of sickening shock.

"I'm sorry," the bot murmurs, "he's dead."

It's vaguely strange, that it still feels like the world is ending in this single moment even though it's been over for a long time already. It doesn't make sense.

But, as his spark breaks and burns, the last vestiges of hope that had been saving him every day shattering, it doesn't feel like anything will ever make sense again. How can anything in the world make sense, be  _right,_ when some force tore Wheeljack away from him like this? How can anything make sense, when it didn't take him too?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

In space, there is no morning. Hours pass mechanically, the sun a disjointed memory. Regardless, Sunstreaker waits until it would have been morning before informing Sideswipe of his plan. He's already awake when Sideswipe comes out of recharge, yawning and frowning when he finds that Sunstreaker has already left their berth.

"What're you doing?" Sideswipe calls over. Sunstreaker glances back at him.

"The Ark's flightplan goes by most of the temporary settlement planets," he says. "So we'll be able to look there."

"Okay," Sideswipe's tone is laden with confusion, "so what's the problem with that?"

"I didn't say there was a problem."

"Yes, you did."

"No I didn't."

"You did."

"I think I'd know, Swipe," Susntreaker nearly snaps. Sideswipe holds up his hands.

"And I think I'm not stupid, Sunny. You said  _we'll be able to look there_ with this- this tone. And I kind of get it by now."

"Whatever," Sunstreaker growls.

"So? The problem?"

"The  _problem,"_ Sunstreaker spits through clenched teeth, "is that we aren't scheduled to  _land_ on any of these planets, of course. We're going to have to ask Optimus's permission."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Sunstreaker glares down at the flightplan coordinates on the datapad in his hand.

"He's – he's not holding anything against you, Sun. He knows what happened now."

"So?" Sunstreaker turns to glare at Sideswipe, who looks back unflinchingly, "that doesn't change the fact that he still believed I would betray  _everyone_ like that-  _including you!_ He thinks I would do that to  _you,_ and he  _believed_ that, and I'm not about to forgive him for that. And- and telling him we need to do this, because _I_ fucked up and- and  _betrayed_ our- our-" he cuts off abruptly, drawing in a shaky intake.

"Sunny," Sideswipe says softly, "he's not going to say we shouldn't be looking for them." Sunstreaker just shakes his head, doesn't say anything and walks out the door.

Optimus is in his office already. His work schedule seems to encompass something like the entire day; Sunstreaker had half-hoped he wouldn't be available just yet. When he knocks on the door, though, Optimus's 'come in' is immediate.

"Sunstreaker," Optimus sounds close to surprised when Sunstreaker walks in. He pushes aside the stack of datefiles he had been reading, beckons him in.

"I saw our flightplan," Sunstreaker says, gaze fixed on the sharp corner of Optimus's desk, "would we be able to land on the Autobot settlement planets?"

"Why would we need to?" Optimus's tone is careful, delicate; Sunstreaker hates the implications, the too-late apology in Optimus's every word.

"Sideswipe and I- we're- we're looking for- something. That might be on one of those planets."

"I'm afraid there would have to be a very significant need to do so-" he begins.

"There is," Sunstreaker snaps, still determinedly avoiding Optimus's gaze, "when –" he hesitates, hates himself for the tremble in his voice, "when I wasn't with Sideswipe, I- I had our- our sparklings." He raises his gaze reluctantly, only to see the barely-hidden shock on Optimus's face. "I gave them up. Sideswipe never saw them, never- never knew about them, until recently. And the bots who had them were killed, so now – now we want them back."

He hates the sympathy. He hates that bots feel  _bad_ for him for having done this treacherous  _betrayal_ of two of the most innocent bots in any universe, of his own  _sparkmate._ The few bots who know – Sideswipe, the medic who had crafted the twins, Foria and Forger and now Optimus – every single one had expressed _sympathy,_ felt the revolting need to feel  _sorry_ for him, as if he was the one who deserved anything like kindness after what he'd done. Sunstreaker could never bring himself to feel sorry for  _himself,_ never – everything he had, all the pain and guilt and sorrow, was for the sparklings he abandoned and for Sideswipe, who had never been given even the chance to meet them.

"I didn't know," Optimus says softly.

"I don't want sympathy," Sunstreaker cuts him off, practically snarling, "I just want to know if we can stop on those planets so we can – can try to –"

"Of course." His tone is still gentle. Sunstreaker manages to choke out something that resembles a  _thank you_ and hurries out of the office.

Sideswipe looks relieved when Sunstreaker tells him the news, but it's not a sentiment Sunstreaker shares. It's good, it helps – but in reality, they're no closer to finding the twins.

In reality, all they're going on is the memory of the twins as the only proof that they exist in any far reaches of the universe.

Sunstreaker has always thought the universe feels vast and empty, but now it feels infinite, nothing but crevices and nooks, all hiding something – or, perhaps, insufferably, hiding nothing at all.

The universe has never felt so desolate.


	3. Chapter 3

"He said yes." Sunstreaker stares out the window, frowns when all he sees is darkness and stars.  _Everything_ makes him think of them – even now, he imagines them in a nursery with a view of the stars, but he doesn't know where they've been living, just knows that if he'd kept them – if he'd kept them, that was what they would have had. He could have given them a tiny berth below the window that overlooked an endless array of stars, instead of losing  _them_ among all those stars. He can't even think their names anymore, because all he feels is that aching emptiness where memories should have been, and all he has is pain.

Sideswipe seems to sense the sullen train of Sunstreaker's thoughts, even if he can't see the same wrenching image, and maybe it's better that way, if he can't feel what Sunstreaker does. Sunstreaker wouldn't be able to bear that.

"Yes is good," Sideswipe says carefully, circling in closer behind him, almost close enough to touch. "What?"

"Nothing," Sunstreaker snaps back, shrinks away from Sideswipe's touch. Some part of him is still afraid that just touching him will somehow allow Sideswipe to see what Sunstreaker's thinking, that he'll have to feel the way Sunstreaker does. That would be the one thing worse than this – putting Sideswipe through it too. "I'm gonna go look around, haven't gotten a chance to see the place yet."

He stalks out before Sideswipe can so much as touch him, because the fear is as real as ever, because the day Sideswipe sees the images he does – things that should be beautiful but instead are painful like a poison that burns and breaks, images like their tiny faces and little hands, and the cool serenity of the nursery they would have had – will be the end of him

The Ark II is the almost same as the Ark that was their home, would be a perfect carbon copy if it wasn't missing the things that made the Ark their  _home._ The dents with stories behind them, the decorating disaster cover-ups, just the thought that they were exactly where events had unfolded to become memories. Now, Sunstreaker stands at the doorway of the rec room, and he doesn't feel like he's in the same spot where he once shoved Sideswipe up against the door and whispered  _I love you._ It's like being on one of those movie sets on Earth – standing somewhere that looks real, looks the way it's supposed to, but knowing that one glance around will prove it different, prove that the walls end and the floors fall away, and it's all just a copy, a fake.

It's close, though. It's close enough that one day, it'll be like picking up where they left off. While Earth was always going to feel temporary, this, Sunstreaker knew, could someday feel like home.

And then he hears it.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

It's nearly impossible to function. Ratchet can't think, can't do anything, because every single moment is pounding of emptiness, some black hole in his chest that withers everything inside him. It's like losing himself, feeling parts of himself go, following Wheeljack into the only oblivion more vast than all of space.

He wants to disappear into his quarters forever, pretend like Wheeljack will come back someday, and he tries, tries so hard. Every time, though, eventually there comes the knocking on the door that he tries to ignore. Today, he lets it continue for a good long while, before dragging himself over to open the door.

"Hi, Ratchet." Inlay is as cheery as if he'd only been standing there a short time, "Just had a quick question for ya." His 'quick questions' are always long and involved, and keep Ratchet in the medbay all day, cross-referencing charts and being dragged into discussions laden with eons' worth of combined medical knowledge.

"What."

"Oh, I was just wondering about this chart program thing," he was taking a few steps back, trying to lead Ratchet to the medbay, where he would be ensnared for  _hours._

"Wondering about, as in you have a question, or would like to reformat the entire thing?" Ratchet grumbles. Inlay grins. "No."

"I have a  _much_ more efficient idea in mind!"

"Just- oh,  _fine,"_ Ratchet growls, and Inlay lights up even more, if that's even possible. "Show me, I suppose."

Inlay is already racing for the medbay, babbling at top speed about some project he has in mind, far more complex than he led Ratchet to believe.

If he blocks out the words, it's almost like listening to Wheeljack. But screening out the words doesn't last forever, and when Ratchet forces himself to tune back in, it's jarring, disorienting.

"-and, well, if the whole thing were to fail tomorrow, there'll be backups! And then, even if the whole ship went down in like, flames – pretend there can be fire in space for a second –  _then,_ even then, there would be a backup! And anyhow, I think we should have a quick-reference option. Quicker than the other one, which, while fast, at any minute could wipe all the information, and then what if-" Ratchet had to adjust every time he listened to Inlay. It was like having reality shoved in his face, by force and against his will.

Instead of accepting it, he just tunes out the words again, nodding along, and in his mind, all the words rushing at him are about some new science project that defies common sense and necessity, something built for no reason at all.

0o0o0o0o0o

Bee loved Sam as a human, there was no question in his mind about it. He'd loved that Sam was so miraculously different from him that it was awe-inspiring. He'd loved Sam's infinite patience at sometimes being treated like a science project, the way he'd laughed at Bee's outright shock or downright amazement.

So much of the human element was gone now. There was no more sudden amazement and following shared laughter, no more simple bewilderment or wide-eyed awe. And some small, secret part of Bee had been deathly afraid. He's never been good at accepting, identifying, or sharing his emotions; he's always been afraid that a closer examination would reveal him to be terrible and hateful. That part of him wondered in silence whether he just loved Sam for being a human. Whether that was it- that now that they were somewhere else entirely, now that so many mysteries were gone and would maybe one day be forgotten, he'd find out that his love was only fascination, and that it would disappear, vapid and distant now that there was nothing left to discover.

He was wrong. Thank Primus, Bee was  _wrong._ Now that there's little he doesn't know about Sam, he hasn't stopped being fascinated. Now, he can compare them, all the similarities that bind them even closer together. And in the absence of human differences, there's the new fascination with finding new experiences for both of them, to see what Sam thinks, what he feels.

That will never go away – this fascination to know everything Sam thinks  _now,_ what he feels about _everything,_ to know him on an ever-deeper level that increases daily, with the endless multitude of things they experience together.

Bee loved Sam as a human, but now he loves Sam for  _Sam,_ for every little part of him, and all the parts that don't exist yet, thoughts that unfold with every new day.

Sam makes every new experience newer, more exhilarating, infinitely more beautiful.

"So," Bee says, turning from the window to look at Sam. "What do you think?"

Sam's eyes are full of the stars before them, and that's all the answer Bee needs.


End file.
